


Nation's Pride

by smuttyandabsurd



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smuttyandabsurd/pseuds/smuttyandabsurd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland is a young tailor who runs a shop in London. Under Nazi occupation, his shop is tasked with mending and tailoring uniforms for the SS. In the run-up to an official celebration, he receives a number of new orders, as well as the attention of Gilbert Weilschmidt, a newly-decorated war hero. This is his story.</p><p>England/Prussia. SSGB!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This AU takes its origin and name from Len Deighton’s [SS-GB](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS-GB), a novel set in an alternate history where the Nazis were successful in conquering and occupying Britain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur reflects on food rationing and life under occupation.

**November 1941. London.**

The kettle let out a shrill whistle as steam jetted from its spout.

Arthur bustled over and lifted it from the stove, pouring a measure of the boiling water into a mug before sloshing the remainder into a wash basin set on a low stand.

He had been burning the candles at both a lot lately, and it showed. As the steam cleared from the mirror in thin wispy tendrils, his tired eyes stared listlessly back at his own dishevelled appearance. Dark circles had formed around his eyes from lack of sleep, and his hair stuck up on end from the countless times he had run his fingers through in frustration. A five o’clock shadow dusted the lower half of his pale gaunt face – but that he could fix. Slowly, with heavy weighted arms, he reached to pick up his soap and brush and, keeping his eyes fixed to his hands, he began to work up a lather.

After he had washed, shaved and dressed, and tamed his hair as best he could with a wooden comb that was missing half its teeth, Arthur sat down with the morning paper to a frugal breakfast.

Today, he was having a slice of stale brown bread, which he had lightly toasted under the grill and spread thinly with margarine. It was bland with all the chewy texture of a piece of leather; and not for the first time he wished for some eggs and bacon instead.

He washed down his toast with a mug of weak black tea sweetened with a little sugar. He had not had any milk to go with his tea for a while now. That was half a month ago, and it looked as if he would have to forego the sugar as well as he had just used up his ration. At the first sip, he realised with a pang of regret that it had gotten cold in the draughty room, which added to his disappointment. He drained the mug anyway.

He was out of the door at half past seven, pulling on a grey overcoat over his shirt and jacket, and skipping down the steps of his apartment onto the street.

Outside, the sky was overcast, and it was bitterly cold with a dry northern wind rattling past shuttered windows and sending brown autumn leaves skittering across the pavement. Few people were out in the streets that morning, walking hurriedly along a road empty of vehicles. There was a blanket ban on all personal automobiles earlier in the year, he vaguely remembered. Sometime back in August or so.

Arthur walked as everyone walked, in quick long strides of his legs with his head bowed and his hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, eyes cast down to the ground littered with broken bricks and finely-crushed glass.

It was nine months into the Nazi occupation of Britain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur opens shop and is visited by soldiers with an additional order.

Arthur rolled open the shutters of his shop at around a quarter to nine. Most of his staff had yet to arrive (business started at half past nine), but his head seamstress – Angelique – was there to lend him a hand that morning.

The longest and most trusted person in Arthur’s employ, Angelique had arrived in Britain five years ago with a French passport, a history of employment as a chamber maid, and a hesitant grasp of the English language. She had spent weeks burning through her savings in search of work before finding a wanted sign in Arthur’s shop window for a seamstress. The interview had been brief. Arthur had accepted her papers without querying further than a faint, “So you’re from the Seychelles?” He had hired her on the spot after she had shown her fine needlework, and she made sure that he never had cause to regret his decision.

They had known each for four years now. She was sixteen then, and him only nineteen but already running the shop, which had been left to him by his partner who left for America. They had formed a firm and trusting relationship over the years, and as she prepared them both a cup of tea that morning, Angelique marvelled inwardly at that.

Arthur sat now at her sewing machine, changing the needle which had blunted yesterday evening. In his shirt, vest and tie, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbow and a measuring tape slung around his shoulders, he looked at once young and very old. It was the tiredness lining his face, she thought, his bruised and reddened eyes set in a frown etching deep, unhappy lines into his brow that aged him so.

Quietly, in a wordless gesture, she brought him the newly-brewed tea which she set on the table beside the machine.

“Thank you, Angelique,” he said, taking a moment to look up from his work. His voice was a little gruff but kind. “Just see to some cleaning up whilst I finish this for you.”

“Yes, of course, Mr Kirkland,” she said with a cheerfulness she did not really feel. She went to the table strewn with scrap cloths and began tidying them away, sorting them by colour into small boxes.

Arthur had the needle changed and re-threaded, and was about to perform a test run when the door swung opened, ringing the bell hung overhead. He looked up, expecting to see little Peter the button boy who was usually the next to arrive. He frowned at the sight of two German soldiers stomping in instead.

They were both tall and fair-haired, the taller and blonder of the two having to stoop to enter the shop. Angelique dropped her work and went over to greet them, but before she had a chance to speak, the tall one barked at her, “Arthur Kirkland!”

He towered over poor Angelique who looked obviously intimidated. Arthur rose to his feet, his frown deepening into a scowl.

“Your order isn’t ready yet,” he said. “I’ve told you lot, it won’t be ready until next week.”

He nodded for Angelique to leave them and she hurried away. He was thankful that the rest of his staff had yet to arrive to suffer their intimidation.

“Herr Kirkland?” the soldier barked again.

“Speaking.”

The blond soldier was a good foot taller than him, but he wasn’t going to let that frighten him in his own bloody shop. To his surprise, the soldier only stamped and clicked his heels together, standing to attention as he addressed him again in a more deferential tone.

“We would like to put a new order,” he said, nodding to his partner beside him.

Arthur cast an impatient glance at the other soldier, ready to give them a piece of his mind for trying to add to the order so late. But the words caught in his throat. Slowly, he turned to stare unabashedly at the shorter and leaner of the two soldiers, his eyes darting all over on account of his unusual features.

The soldier had a pair of sharp narrow eyes, with irises that were completely and unmistakably red. He was very pale – his skin was bone-white – and as he took off his hat, Arthur saw that his hair was an unusual colour as well. Grey, he thought at first, but it was lighter than that. It was silver.

“Mr Kirkland, do forgive our intrusion,” Red Eyes said in a smooth, almost accent-less English. “And for my appearance this morning,” he added with a gesture towards his himself. “I have just arrived in London and, as you can see, I am rather in need of a new set of clothes.”

Arthur had not been looking at his clothes. But now that his attention was brought to them, he let his eyes slide over the full length of the soldier’s person.

It was clean, at the very least. A colourless, shapeless coat hung heavy over his lean frame; if it were not for his uniform – the distinctive cut of the SS uniform peeking from under the coat – he could have passed for a destitute. Arthur felt an inexplicable urge to do something about it.

“Right,” he found himself saying, forgetting all about telling where they could shove their extra order. “Come with me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur takes Red Eyes’ measurements and is inexplicably flustered.

The soldiers exchanged glances – one looking stern, the other smiling a little wryly – but Arthur did not wait to hear them reach a decision. He turned and strode into the backroom, his mind already whirling through the inventory of pre-tailored uniforms that were stored in there.

First he would need a shirt. This should be the easiest to pick. With hardly a glance at the shelves, he plucked a folded piece from a pile as he stalked into the room. Next were some trousers. Of course, anything pre-made wouldn’t fit perfectly, but a new pair would do for now. He glanced over his shoulder at Red Eyes who followed after him, jackboots clomping heavily on the hardwood floor. He made a mental calculation of his waist size and leg length, before selecting a pair and slinging them over his arm with the shirt.

For good measure, he retrieved a new belt from a military-issued box to go with them.

Having made his choices, he brought the clothes over and planted them in a heap on the table. “Take off your coat and jacket,” he said as he lifted the measuring tape from around his neck.

Red Eyes did as he was bid, but with a quirked eyebrow that suggested he found the whole thing somewhat amusing. He shrugged out of his shapeless and colourless overcoat, sliding the sleeves deliberately down his arms before handing it over.

Arthur took it from him and turned to drape it over the back of a chair. When he spun back around, it was to find Red Eyes unbuttoning his SS jacket.

It was undeniable that he had a soldier’s physique. The jacket slid over his worn, white cotton shirt with a small whisking sound, seeming to accentuate the breadth of his arms. This he turned to hang on a clothes rail with a coat hanger he had seen on the way in. Whilst he had his back turned, Arthur stepped up with his tape. Quickly, he slid it over Red Eyes’ back for his shoulder width and jacket length, noting down the measurements with a pencil to a scrap piece of paper.

“Right, turn around.”

He wrapped the tape twice around the soldier; once around the chest and shoulder blades for his chest measurement, and once more around the middle for his waist measurement. He took a moment to note down the numbers, frowning as he returned for a second measure of Red Eyes’ chest. This time, he twisted around to take it from the back.

“Is this restricting?” he asked as he held the tape ends tightly together.

“A little bit,” Red Eyes admitted, with just the smallest slip of a German accent. Arthur swallowed as he loosened the tape.

“How about this?”

“Better.”

Arthur took the number and pencilled it over the original measurement on his scrap paper. Then he took a measure of Red Eyes’ sleeve length from shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist, and wrist to shoulder. He kept his eyes firmly averted on the pretext of focusing on his work, but he could feel Red Eyes following his every move with those startlingly-coloured eyes.

“I’ll be using these measurements for your order. You can give them to Angelique. She will provide you with a date for collection. Help yourself to a jacket from the pre-made stock if you want. They’re all plain, but I can have your collar patches sewn in for you this afternoon.”

“That’s very generous, but it won’t be necessary,” Red Eyes said as he pulled his old jacket back on, snapping the buttons together. “I’ll take the shirt and trousers.”

Arthur busied with folding and stacking the new clothes together as Red Eyes fixed himself, ducking to look into the full-length mirror hung to the back of the door. He dusted his sleeves and smoothed down his jacket, veritably preening as he slicked back his hair, turning this way and that. As he pulled on his hat, his eyes happened to catch Arthur’s in the mirror before the latter could turn away. He gave a self-satisfied smirk which made Arthur flush.

“W-would that be all?” Arthur asked, sounding flustered. He could have kicked himself.

Red Eyes finished his grooming and turned smartly on his heels. “Yes, thank you, Mr Kirkland,” he said politely, a little distantly, without a trace of the playfulness he had shown in the mirror’s reflection.

Later that day, as Angelique was overseeing the other staff, Arthur stole back into backroom with the order forms. His shirt collar felt rough and tight around his neck as he flipped through the folder, looking for the form that would have _his_ name on…

It was filed together with the batch due next week. Neatly printed in black ink for an order of a full set of uniform was the name: Hpt. Gilbert Weilschmidt.


End file.
